Necessities
by Tyrant Tacos
Summary: Hey, originally going to be a one shot but I decided against it. :D This is set around the time Sherlock comes back after the fall. Time does progress in this. First chapter is set 5 years after the two meet, on January 29th, 2014 I believe. It's going to be rated M for future... chapters... Johnlock
1. Necessities

_Necessities _

John sat at the dinner table, rapidly tapping his finger on the leg of his chair, impatient. He quickly glanced at his watch again, "Ten past Eight…" He let out a reluctant sigh and pushed his seat away from the table. The wooden chair's legs slid across the smooth marble floor of the restaurant. He pushed his chair back in and turned, only to be confronted by the waiter.

"Sir?" The waiter asked inquisitively.

John looked up, eyes full of pain and anger. Though he knew he had to hold himself together. No emotion was to be shown. He was a soldier after all. He swallowed, a lump in his throat making it difficult for the saliva to go down, and responded.

"I'll be making my leave. Plans were cancelled." He managed hoarsely.

The waiter nodded his understanding and cleared the table for the next customers. John made his way towards the front of the restaurant and hailed a cab. Of course, it was just like Sherlock to forget something that a normal person would find so meaningful. On this day exactly 5 years prior, John and Sherlock first made each other's acquaintance. Although for three of those years, Sherlock had been, in a sense, dead. A cabbie pulled up to the side of the road and John climbed in reluctantly, remembering the string of Cabbie murders. It was the first case that John and Sherlock took on. "221B Baker Street, please." The cabbie nodded and John shut the door behind him.

The cabbie pulled up and John paid him. He opened the door, shut it behind him, and made his way towards the steps of the flat he shared with the notorious Sherlock Holmes. John had settled down, the rage had faded and was replaced with only disappointment. A vibration in his pocket distracted him. He reached in his trousers and plucked out his mobile. The caller ID read, _Mary Morstan. _He sighed and sent the call straight to voicemail. John was having relationship problems with Mary recently, he was hoping that this dinner with Sherlock would help clear his mind; perhaps give him a decent distraction, though obviously that pompous arse had other plans. John bounded up the steps toward the front door. He stuck his key into the key hole, it stuck in fast. He gave it a slight tug to the right and it clicked open. John pulled his key out, returned it to his pocket, and reached towards the doorknob. He twisted it and pushed the door ajar. He ascended up the flight of stairs that lead to his shared flat and stopped in front of the door. He placed his ear upon the closed door. He could hear the serine sound of a violin being played.

John let out a halfhearted sign, "At least he's doing something he loves…" He paused for a moment, Sherlock only played the violin when there was something on his mind. Perhaps there is a reason for abandoning him at the restaurant all alone. He diligently opened the door to the flat and stared at Sherlock. His back was to the rest of the room, his face hidden, as he peered out of the window. John slumped his shoulders and made his way towards the kitchen; he took off his jacket and placed it upon the sofa. He walked into the kitchen, and was taken aback by what he saw. A beautiful meal was spread out across the table, on top of a red velvet table cloth. John stood at the doorway, flabbergasted. He blinked and turned to look back at Sherlock.

"Sherlock…" John finally managed. "Did… Did you do this?" He stood there, mouth agape. Sherlock's only response was the continuous melody of his violin. John twiddled his fingers through his oatmeal yellow jumper. It was his favourite one and he wore it to commemorate today as a special occasion. John looked downcast, turning his gaze to the ground, still no response from Sherlock. The music suddenly stopped and John whipped his head back up in response. A silence hung in the air; you could feel the electricity flowing between the two. Sherlock took a deep breath and broke the silence.

"Of course I did. Who else would? Mrs. Hudson? That would be a serendipitous outcome, would it not? Or did you forget that she's not our housekeeper?" Sherlock picked up his violin bow, stroked the grip with his forefinger and thumb, and continued. "You undoubtedly assumed that I just 'forgot' what today was. What it meant. However, I don't just simply forget things John. As you know, I only delete things I deem unnecessary. It may come as a shock to you, but today does retain _some_ importance to me, whether you believe me or not." He placed the bow back into the case, along with the cherry wood violin. He was wearing his favourite button up shirt, John noticed for the first time. The purple one that seemed as though the buttons would burst at any moment, he almost felt sorry for the shirt.

"I didn't know that you could cook Sherlock." John stammered out.

"There are still a lot of things you don't know about me, though I will say, you know the most out of everyone; including my sweet older brother." Sherlock replied, with heavily implied sarcasm surrounding the statement of _sweet older brother._ John could feel an uncontrollable grin begin to grow upon his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, and contemplated on what he would do next. He opened them and stared at Sherlock, and took a step forward. He suddenly rushed up to Sherlock, embracing him and taking Sherlock aback.

"Wha-!" Sherlock exclaimed. He shook his head, a slight laugh rising up from his chest. "Well this is a surprise, but have it your way." Sherlock lifted his arms, and returned the embrace. They separated, John's face was flushed red, and he turned his face in the other direction.

Sherlock started at his flat mate for a moment, eyeing him up and down.

"SHERLOCK. STOP MAKING DEDUCTIONS." John snapped. It didn't take an idiot to piece together what he was doing.

Sherlock grinned. "You're embarrassed, even though you're the one who initiated the embrace. Your face is flushed with blood, your arms are around your chest in a protective manner and you refuse to make eye contact. Why's that?" Sherlock asked, a hint of curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

"No reason. Let's just have dinner already, okay? And could you please stop eyeing me? I feel like you're trying to hit it off with me." John finally responded a tad bit aggravated and embarrassed. He turned away from Sherlock and retreated into the kitchen.

The dinner was laid out beautifully across the table. A kettle over the fire began to whistle, signifying that it was time to make the tea. John pulled the chair out closest to him and sat himself into it. Out in front of him, his plate was filled with roast meat, steamed carrots and peas and a side of Yorkshire pudding. The centerpiece of the table was a beautiful ebony candlestick with a red candle ablaze on top of it. John looked up again; Sherlock had just walked into the kitchen and was beginning to serve the tea.

"We're going to have tea with this?" John inquired.

"No. The tea is for Mrs. Hudson. We," Sherlock poured the tea in a cup and placed it onto a tray, "Are going to have champagne. I mean, it is a special occasion."

John felt another uncontrollable grin plaster itself upon his face. His eyes squinted with joy, "Haha, guess you have a point." Sherlock quickly exited the room to deliver the tea. John looked around the kitchen. The traces of this being a home cooked meal were all over the kitchen.

Sherlock returned, paced towards a cupboard, pulled out a bottle of champagne from it and two wine glasses. He sat himself on the opposite side of John, and popped the bottle open with dexterity. No spill at all. John raised his eyebrows in surprise, letting a quick smirk snake its way onto his face for a moment.

"Sherlock," John began whilst Sherlock poured the wine into their glasses. "You could have at least told me you wanted to do a home cooked meal instead of going out to a restaurant. I mean, I did wait there for over an hour and you never showed up. To be honest, I was bloody braised off. Though I'm glad I didn't storm in as I had wanted to."

Sherlock looked up with a crooked smile as he handed John his glass. "No doubt I was anticipating that John. I cannot say that I'm glad it did not turn out that way though. And to answer your question, I didn't tell you for the obvious purpose that this was intended to be a surprise." John sipped the champagne. He was struck with an idea.

"A toast, Sherlock. To our five long years of friendship and that it lasts a lifetime." John raised his glass towards Sherlock. Sherlock blinked, his eyes crystal pools of ever changing colours. A flash of horror streaked through John's mind. _Why is he not raising his glass in response…?_ Fear began to sprout its seeds of corruption in the pit of his stomach. In that moment, it occurred to John just how much he truly needed him. He was in essence, a necessity. Then Sherlock raised his glass, "A toast." He nodded in response. The fear was gone.

End of Chapter One


	2. Anomalies

_Anomalies_

John was sprawled across his bed, with his sheets strewn on the floor. He turned his head over to his bed stand; his clock read 1:27 am. He pushed himself out of his bed, slid on his slippers and headed for the door. He paused for a moment, realizing that he was only wearing his pants. _Red pants_. John would never hear the end of it if he ran into Sherlock whilst wearing these. He'd never live it down. He paced back to his closet, pulled out his night robes and returned to his door. As quite as a mouse, he slid the door open, and pushed. The living room was lifeless and void. John felt the hairs on his neck rise; Billy's vacant, empty stare pierced through him. That lousy skull really bothered John. The only reason he had never trashed it was because it meant so much to that daft fool Sherlock. It helped him cope through the three years when John thought that his best mate was deceased. Lestrade and Mycroft had wanted John to clear out the room, so that he could move on from the death, but he refused. John knew that there was no way that his best friend could be dead. So he left everything as it was, for when the day came around that Sherlock returned. He continued his trek towards the kitchen, passing his jacket that was on the coat hanger. He smiled as he entered his destination.

_It's been a week…_ John thought to himself. One week since Sherlock had surprised John with a beautiful home cooked meal. His eyes squinted with joy; at least something good had come to him recently. His relationship with Mary on the other hand had descended into some sort of horrid drama. Things have been getting complicated ever since Sherlock made his grand return. Of course John had greeted him with a kiss of the fist, but that didn't mean that he hated him. John had started to rekindle his friendship with Sherlock; he attempted to patch it up like it was before the incident with Moriarty and the fall. Unfortunately, that meant he was neglecting his time spent with Mary. It was just like the times before with his old girlfriends… Mixing them up with each other, being told how great of a boyfriend he was… to Sherlock, that is. He'd hoped that his relationship with Mary would last and that Sherlock would become his best man at his wedding, but that seemed far off now. He had spiraled into something he could no longer climb out of; a bottomless pit, with no way to escape its ever hungry void. John shuddered and tried to recall happier times. Yet, the only ones that came to mind were ones with his flat mate…

John attempted to rub the sleep away from his weary eyes, though it was all for naught. He approached the cooler and opened the door. A luminous, blinding light enveloped the entire room as he searched for some sort of nourishment. It was futile, it always was. The food that was left over from the meal that Sherlock had cooked a week prior had been consumed as rapidly as it had been made. All that was left in its place were Sherlock's usual experiments. How he still managed to have an appetite after gazing upon those gruesome lab projects baffled even John. He shut the door and made his way back towards his study. Maybe it was time to update his blog. He had not done it in a while, not since reuniting with his friend, and it felt it was time to let his readers know how he was doing. He quickly made his way towards his room, pulled his laptop from under the bed, and returned to his desk in the living room. He pulled it open and began typing.

February 5th, 2013

It's been exactly one week and five years since Sherlock and I first met. Things seem to be going smoothly for us, though it's another story with Mary… Sherlock surprised me with an astounding home cooked meal! I didn't even know this arrogant arse could cook; though when I asked him yesterday if he would ever consider it again, he just grunted. Apparently, cooking is a mediocre science that Sherlock does not enjoy dabbling in.

The cursor blinked on the screen. John could not seem to concentrate on what to write anymore. He exhaled, and shut the screen; leaving the laptop on sleep mode. He pushed his chair back; it caught on the carpet and tipped.

"Whaaa!" John yelled as the chair fell, taking him along with it. It slammed into the ground, John's head ricochet off the floor. He lay on the ground, unmoving. He reached up and began to rub the back of this head. "Bloody hell… There'll definitely be a bump there later…" A creaking sound caught his attention and he whipped his neck towards the doorway. An arm reached out through the darkness and taped the light switch. The lights flickered on, and Sherlock stood before a more than partially naked John. He beamed at the scene before him; his laugh cracked the silence of the night. John felt a mixture of fury and embarrassment as he realized for the first time that his night robes opened whilst he fell, exposing his red pants. He rolled off the chair, and bolted up-right, tying his robe back together. John stared at Sherlock, he was not in his usual night ware, in fact, he was wearing something he'd never seen before.

"White jammies with little bees?!" John burst out, he began laughing uncontrollably. His embarrassment of being seen in red pants had gone. Now it was Sherlock who was steaming red.

"Sherlock," John gasped between laughs, "You should see your face! You're as red-"

"As red as what? Your pants?" He snapped back, a wiry smile betraying his tone of anger.

They both had one of their most delicate secrets blatantly exposed to one another. John let out a sigh, "Well I've know you for five years Sherlock," he tightened the soft felt belt that held his robes together again, "and I'd never have guessed this about you." Sherlock held John's gaze for a moment. John shuffled nervously, unsettled by the fact that he was in his pants in front of his best mate. He felt his face flush with blood as he finally processed his situation. _I'm in my pants… in front of my best mate… _John's hands began to sweat, his eyes dilated, and he could feel his heart beat increasing. _What's the matter with me… I'm straight! I shouldn't be getting… aroused…flustered…_

"Well I'd never imagined you'd wear those ridiculous red pants. They're for a child!" He tilted his head, never looking away from John. Sherlock's eyes suddenly began prodding John. _Oh god, he's deducing. _

"Well this is all fine and dandy bonding material but I feel as though I should get back to bed." John said quickly, his voice going up an octave towards the end of his statement. He grunted, quickly turned around and paced over to the desk. He grabbed his laptop, and headed back to his room. John shut the door behind him, glancing back at Sherlock just long enough to see him blink once and turn off the light.

The alarm sounded, its high pitched blares rousing John from his deep sleep. He rolled over and slammed the alarm. It shut off, and he rolled back onto his back. He replayed the previous night in his head. How he went from perfectly calm, to completely and utterly sexually devastated. He was emotionally wrecked. How is it that Three Continents John could fall for a man, and of all men, Sherlock? He replayed every moment like a broken record, trying to identify exactly when he became so flustered. The thing was, it didn't make any sense to him. John had been in his pants in front of other men before. Hell, back in the war days, he would go on daily dares to streak through the camp, and nothing came of those. No sweaty palms, no dilated eyes, no yearning in the pit of his stomach. The only conclusion is that Sherlock must be the anomaly; the one man with the possibility of turning John onto the other team. He let out an empty sigh. A void had been growing inside of him recently. It was a festering, brooding, void; and not even Mary seemed to help. Yet when he was around Sherlock, this gaping hole seemed to close in on itself. Little by little, Sherlock was stitching him back together. Sherlock was Doctor Watson's Doctor. He let out a slight chuckle and clenched his fist over his bare chest. The rhythmic beating of his heart vibrated through his hand and up into his arm. He pulled himself together, and climbed out of bed; strolling over to retrieve the sheets that were spread across the floor. Someone knocked at the door as he bent over to pick up the sheets.

"Just a minute, let me get decent." John called out. He tossed the sheets onto his bed, rushed over to his dresser and pulled out a pair of trousers. He hopped over to the closet as he slid them on, rummaging through his array of jumpers which Sherlock had 'volunteered' to organize by color, brand, and fabric. He slid on the grey jumper that Sherlock had gifted him on the night of their dinner, and paced back to the door. He lifted his hand towards the doorknob, twisted it, and pulled the door ajar. Sherlock stood on the other side, in a white button up with his dress trousers and hair somehow managing to stay an ordered mess.

John closed his eyes for a moment, saving the image of his flat mate in his mind. "What is it Sherlock?" John inquired, without much enthusiasm.

"I'm bored John." Sherlock replied nonchalantly. He fiddled with a pen in his hand and sighed. "Let's go out and do something." This took John aback. "Oh. Uh. Well, okay… Just let me get ready, I need to jump into the shower really quickly." Sherlock let out a disapproving huff of air, strolled over to the sofa and seated himself into it.

"Fine. Just be quick about your business." Sherlock flicked on the telly and began browsing through the channels.

"Oh and I almost forgot, no watching crap telly while I'm in the shower." John reminded him. Sherlock rolled his eyes displeasingly, but nodded his agreement. John turned around and headed towards the bath.

He shut the restroom door behind him and stripped down. He opened the door to the shower, turned on the water, and stepped inside the stream. It was cold on his skin, it felt soothing; as though it was washing away all of his problems. In reality though, his personal life was still a mess. He stood there as the water poured around his scalp, moistening the lump on his head from where he hit the floor the previous night. He exhaled, and continued on with his business.

John stepped out of the bath, and wrapped a towel around his waist. He quickly opened the door and made his way towards his room. He stopped in the living room, and noticed that Sherlock was no longer in there; the soft sound of the telly, a static murmur, his only companion. He huffed out, aggravated. He already knew what Sherlock was up to. John gave out a shout, "Sherlock! I swear, if you're in my room organizing my pants by colour, I'm going to beat you bloody!" He heard a loud rustling coming from the direction of his chamber; and looked up just in time as Sherlock bolted out of his room. John shook his head disapprovingly, glad that Sherlock was not in the room to see how embarrassed he really was. John paced into his room and shut the door behind him, the clothes he slipped on this morning, now tossed onto his bed. He strolled over to his dresser and opened the top drawer, where his unmentionables were located. Just as he suspected, Sherlock had begun to organize them according to colour and style. John felt his heart begin to race as he picked up the top most pair. He pressed them against his chest and shut his eyes. _He touched these._He told himself. He looked around for a moment, nervous that someone may have seen what he just did, yet he knew it was preposterous. He let out an elated breathe and slipped them on, followed by his trousers and grey jumper. He strode to the door, tugged it open, and was greeted by an eager Sherlock; now sporting his signature tweed coat.

"Is it really that nippy outside?" John inquired, and waited patiently for Sherlock's response.

"It's about eleven degrees Celsius, so I personally think it's a tad bit chilly." Sherlock retorted smugly. "There's also a slight chance of rain and it seems as though Mrs. Hudson has taken your umbrella when she went off to the shop." Sherlock continued, leaning in towards John. "As such, in the case it does begin to precipitate we'll be forced to congregate under my umbrella, if that suits you." Sherlock was now just an inch from John's face. He could feel Sherlock's warm breathe on his face, and he inhaled it. _There is definitely something wrong with me…This is becoming border line obsession. _John quickly shook the thought away and grinned back at Sherlock, "I don't see any problem with that at all." John replied coolly. Sherlock gave a brisk nod. "Then may I ask you John, where would you like to spend this evening? Just a suggestion, please don't propose that we do to the movies, it's quite, well… Dull. They're just so obvious. I don't know how you can't wrap your little brain around how simple it is to dissect one." John let an amused smile snake its way onto his face, this was probably the reason he loved him so much. He always knew how to make him laugh, Sherlock may be one of the most intellectual entities on this planet; but there were times where he was but a mere child. He even acted childish at times, but John grew to love that aspect of him as well. "Fine then Sherlock," John said gruffly, "No matter what I decide, you'll find some way to pick it apart. You decide," Sherlock's eyes lit up, "AS LONG AS IT DOES NOT CONTAIN ANY DISMEMBERED BODY PARTS." His eyes seemed to lose their intrigued spark. "But that takes the enjoyment out of everything… I'll figure something out then." Sherlock backed away from John, and made his way towards the stairs. He exited the room and descended down to the front door of the flat. John stood in the living room and rubbed his arm gingerly. He pulled out his mobile and went to his messages. He clicked away until he came to Mary's name, and began typing:

_Mary, we need to have a chat soon. Not today, but can we schedule something for the near future? Tomorrow perhaps? It's important that we have this conversation as soon as possible. Thanks –JW_

He returned the mobile to his trousers and let out a shaky breathe. _I hope I'm not in over my head with this…_ "John! Are you coming or not? I've hailed a taxi already, if you don't speed the pace I'll be using the cutting board to dice some human ears for an experiment as your punishment." John rushed out the room and closed the door behind him, "Don't you dare ruin yet another cutting board Sherlock! Mrs. Hudson will have your head; and I don't mean the spare one you keep the cooler!" John shouted as he ran down the flight of stairs and out the door in pursuit of Sherlock. He closed the flat door behind him as he exited 221B Baker Street and made his way towards the idle cab, where Sherlock sat, awaiting his presence.

The cab slowed as it approached the Fox and Anchor pub. "A pub? Isn't this a bit ordinary for you?" John inquired inquisitively. "Yes, it is, how observant of you." He replied snidely. "You don't have to be such a prick about it Sherlock." John retorted and gazed outside of the cabbie window. "Well if it's any consolation, I chose it in hopes you'd enjoy it." Sherlock mumbled. John hid his smile and reached for the door handle. He pushed the door open and stepped outside, followed abruptly by Sherlock. John walked inside the pub whilst Sherlock lingered with the cabbie to pay him; umbrella in hand. Inside, the pub was bustling with commotion. He wandered over to a table and sat himself down. He fixated his view on the entrance awaited Sherlock. The door swung open and he stepped inside. He looked confused for a moment, disoriented, until John flagged him down. He sauntered over to the table and took his seat next to John. He was extremely close to him; he could feel Sherlock's arm brush up against his. "It's a tight squeeze here…" John mumbled nervously. "Well you're the one who picked the awkward booth." Sherlock grumbled his reply. The booth they sat in was pushed up against the wall, with only one seat available to be sat in. On the other side of the seat was a wall with a window about half a foot above the table top that gave a view out into the streets. John inhaled the scent of his mate, processing it. He let out nervous sigh, a slight shiver creeping up his spine. He leaned back into his seat and wearily snuggled up against Sherlock, heart beating erratically. Sherlock stiffened for a moment. _Crap! _John's eyes widened in fear, as he anticipated a sharp remark, but nothing came. Sherlock relaxed and pushed himself closer to John, giving a quick glance around before settling himself wholly. John smiled, and slid his hand from the top of the table onto the seat next to his leg and slowly pulled it over to Sherlock, which rested on his thigh. John's face was flushed red; he could hear his heartbeat in his ears. His lips parted as short, sallow breaths exited from his lungs. He heard the loud clicking of heels on the wooden floor as the waitress approached. John quickly pushed himself away from Sherlock, face aflame, and turned away from her; trying to return to his natural colour.

A bubbly high squeak pierced the silence that the two of them had created, "Ello, I'm Karen; how may I serve you?" She inquired. John felt his face return to a normal enough shade that it wouldn't be distracting, and turned his head. Karen looked to be in her early twenties, she had curled, bouncy, blonde hair that stopped at her shoulders and icy blue eyes. Her lips, thin, centered below a small, quirky nose which were all contained within her heart-shaped face. "We'll have some fish and chip, and some black tea." Sherlock replied swiftly, shooing her off. Once out of earshot, Sherlock turned to John. John could feel his eyes piercing him, as they studied his body. "I would suggest that you not make any more notions like before. You _are _in a relationship at the moment, after all." John's heart was beating rapidly; _He never said anything specifically against it though… Maybe… _"What if… What if I told you that I've been having complications with Mary lately. In fact, what if I was to, perhaps, even end the relationship because of those issues…" This peeked Sherlock's interest, he leaned in, waiting to absorb the information like a sponge. "I'm not usually one to be involved with gossip, but were you not intending to propose to her?" A devilish flicker flashed through his eyes. "I was… but ever since you've returned… I'm not sure. I came to the decision the day after our dinner last week, when I was out getting petrol." John stammered out hotly. His face was flushing again, he couldn't control it. Butterflies began to dance in the pit of his stomach, it made him queasy. "And just what would that decision be?" The space between the two closed again as Sherlock tilted in towards him. John swallowed hard, "That I intend to break it off with Mary." Sherlock pulled his hands together and drummed his fingers on one another manically. "I see." He responded in a composed manner. "And," John continued, "And that I want to try to make something. Between the two of us…" He finally got it out. He heaved for air as he awaited for Sherlock's response. Sherlock blinked once, opened his mouth, shut it again, and turned away. John sat there, a vacant expression smeared on his face. He could feel a writhing pain in his heart, it seem to tear him inside, the lump in his throat grew, and prevented him from breathing properly. John looked up and blinked back tears as the waitress approached with the fish and chips and the black tea. She set them on the table, "Okay, there you are! If you need anything else, don't hesitate to ask!" Sherlock gave a curt nod; she twirled around and strode off to help the other customers. John sat there at the table, eyeing the food, his hunger diminished. He felt a tugging in his stomach, and the urge to vomit. Everything he'd done was in an attempt to pursuit a relationship with Sherlock, and it had all been for nothing. He stifled a sob, and reminded himself that he was in public. _Soldiers don't cry._ He told himself repeatedly. A tug on the his sleeve brought him back into the reality of the pub. He jerked his head to the left; Sherlock's arm was the object that had pulled him. He looked up at Sherlock; John's eyes watery and swollen. He leaned in towards John and cupped a hand lightly over his ear, _"I never said no."_ Sherlock pulled his head back and peered into John's eyes. "They say the eyes are a window to one's soul, John." Sherlock paused, "But I believe there are other ways." Sherlock leaned in and pressed his mouth onto John's. They were delicate and warm, the two set of lips crushed against each other. Sherlock pulled back, and reached over to John's hand with his; never breaking his gaze with John. "Waitress!" Sherlock called out, "We'll have a doggie bag for the rest of the meal." The waitress skipped over and bagged the food. The two slid out of the booth and stepped outside. Rain had begun to fall outside; Sherlock looked down to John and pulled out his umbrella. "I suppose we'll have to congregate beneath my umbrella after all." Sherlock stated. John looked up at his flat mate, and nodded briskly as Sherlock opened the umbrella. The two stood underneath it and made their way down the bustling street, hand in hand.

End of Chapter 2


	3. Confrontations

_Confrontations_

Sherlock stood over the oven, the sizzling sound of bacon snapped and crackled in the pan. The aroma wafted around John's nose, tempting him like a siren lures a sailor. Three months had passed since John had ended his relationship with Mary and begun one with Sherlock. Mary was quite understanding, she'd realized that they had begun to grow distant and the return of Sherlock in John's life only made it that much more obvious. They had gone their separate ways now, though they still kept in touch from time to time. John sat behind the table as hunger clawed his stomach. His desire for food made him a little erratic at times. He looked over to Sherlock, an apron tied around his neck. The back of the apron was open, he sported John's red pants and it reminded him of the previous night. John smiled slyly as he recalled it. He replayed the scene throughout his head again: heavy panting, sweaty bodies, groans of ecstasy – The plate clattered onto the table, snapping John from his erotic trance.

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, "John, why are you biting your lip so sexually?" Sherlock's lucid eyes shone.

John huffed and flushed, "Nothing, Sherlock… I was just remembering last night, you know..."

Sherlock smiled smugly, obviously recalling the previous night. "Ah that's correct. I never knew that you found the act of fellatio so arousing." He took the opposite seat across from John, a plate in his own hand, the apron still dangled around his neck.

John averted his gaze to the ceiling, his face still hot. "Why is it that you never seem to have a problem openly speaking about this kind of stuff Sherlock? Don't you find it… well, embarrassing conversing about something so intimate?" John managed; the words stumbled out of his mouth like a drunken man does when he walks. John dropped his eyes to meet Sherlock's again.

He was cool and composed like always. "The only thing I find interesting about the talk of sex is how ruffled you get when I mention it." An amused smile crept its way onto Sherlock's face as he finished his sentence. He twiddled a fork in his hands, food still untouched. John lifted his own fork, and never broke his gaze with Sherlock.

"Well I'm glad you get such a perverted kick out of it." He dug into his meal, face still a blush. A vibration on the counter cut their meal short. Sherlock lurched over and picked up his mobile, and read the message. "What is it?" John inquired. Sherlock clicked the buttons fervently and looked back up to John.

He had an enthusiastic gleam in his eyes and a smile like a child would have in a candy shop plastered on his face. "It seems we have a case."

A cab slowly pulled up outside of the flat. John grabbed his coat off the rack and descended down the flight of stairs. He pulled the door open and was buffeted by a powerful gust of wind. "Sherlock!" He shouted back up to their flat, "Hurry it up! The cab is already idle!" John closed the door behind him, and rushed to the cab, as he fought off gusts of wind. He yanked the door open and climbed inside. A few moments passed before Sherlock's familiar body pulled the door ajar. He swiftly shut the door behind him and trotted towards the cab. His hair ruffled by the blasts of wind. He climbed into the cab, and positioned himself comfortably next to John before the cabbie took off towards its destination.

The cab slowly halted outside Saint Bart's; where Lestrade stood impatiently waiting for the two. He rushed up to the cabbie and tossed him 40 quid. "Keep the change." He shouted to the cabbie as John and Sherlock exited the vehicle. The winds had not settled down, in fact, the sky was beginning to darken. "Great", Lestrade grumbled under his breath, "Just what we need, a freak rainstorm." He charged into the building, followed swiftly by Sherlock and John. The three made their way down the halls towards the direction where Molly was stationed.

John cleared his throat, "So would you mind filling us in as to why we had to be here on such short notice?"

Lestrade let out a tired sigh, "We found something that may interest you."

John butted in, "And by 'you', you mean Sherlock, don't you?" Lestrade nodded. John looked over at his partner, there was a childish bounce to his steps, he seemed overjoyed, and he could hardly contain himself.

"So what is Lestrade?" He spilled out, overexcited.

"Well," Lestrade began, "I'm sure you've heard of a plethora of famous murders and assassinations right?" He quickly rounded a corner as they approached the final hallway towards Molly's station. "It seems we have a copycat killer loose in the city. We've had two deaths already, at first we weren't really sure what we were dealing with." He continued. "But once the second body turned up we knew we had to call you in." He pushed open the doors to Molly's work area. The mortician stood before two body bags. The first and closest to the three was unzipped. A pale man lay in there with many gaping holes in his body. A knife, which was most likely the weapon used by the murderer, lay on a tray on top of a table next to the body bag. The second corpse was still wrapped tightly; Molly eyed it, with a look of disgust in her eyes.

Sherlock strode over to the first body, "What was the copycat intending to imitate with this murder?" He asked Molly sternly.

Her voice was barely audible at first, but grew louder as she continued. "Julius Caesar, the victim sustained twenty-three stab wounds. Only one actually punctured a vital though, in a sense that was the only fatal wound."

Sherlock looked over the corpse; the holes speckled its body like Swiss cheese. "And what makes you so certain it was an imitation of Julius' assassination?" He rounded the body once more, inspecting the cavities.

"The weapon." She stated. "It had _Idus Martii_ engraved on it."

Sherlock looked up from the cadaver, and inspected the blade, "_Idus Martii, _The Ides of March. How clever you." Sherlock spoke to himself, as he eyed the weapon. John could tell that the case was starting to intrigue Sherlock. He had that disturbing look on his face that somehow managed to arouse John as well and make him shudder. "And as for the other body?" Sherlock strode over to the second body bag. He reached for a pair of plastic rubber gauntlets and slipped them on.

Molly took a step forward, arm raised as to stop Sherlock from opening the bag, "Sherlock, wait," He looked up confused. "Never mind." She sighed. John kept his face intent on Sherlock as he unzipped the bag; it opened and revealed a woman, sliced at the torso in half.

"The _Black Dahlia _murder…" He mumbled. "Let me guess, this body was found beside abandoned by a road?" Lestrade and Molly both nodded curtly.

"There's one more thing," Molly piped in. "Both bodies," she made a notion to the corpses, "Had this branded on them behind their left ear." She pulled out two photos from each of the victim's manila files and pushed them towards Sherlock. He looked them over for a quick moment. John couldn't contain his curiosity any longer. He strode over to Sherlock and peeked at the photos. Two red C's had been branded into the skin behind the left ear of each individual. One C was smaller and inside the larger one.

"I'm guessing this is how you came up with 'Copycat' killer?" John inquired. Molly nodded again. Sherlock zipped the body bag back up. John looked over to Sherlock and squeezed his arm. The two held the gaze for a moment. John dipped his head in approval.

Sherlock looked over towards Lestrade, his eyes gleamed with enthusiasm, "We'll take the case."

A modern ringing awoke John the next morning. He rolled over in his covers and reached for his mobile which was on his night stand. _Greg Lestrade,_ it read. He clicked the button and raised the mobile to his ear.

"Yes Lestrade?" John replied groggily.

"John? Are you awake?" Lestrade inquired.

"What kind of question is that? I'm talking to you aren't I? So what the bloody hell do you think?" He snapped. He heard a snickering from the other side of the door and looked up. "Sorry about that, I get a tad irritable in the mornings. What is it?" He replied much more coolly as he pulled himself out of bed and paced towards the door.

"There's been another murder with the copycat's signature brand behind the left ear. Though, there's something different about this one. I'll send you the information; I need you two down here."

John reached for the doorknob, "Alright, I'll make sure to tell Sherlock. We'll see you there." He hung up the phone and pulled the door ajar. Sherlock stood before him, a smile curled at the edge of his lips. "There's been another murder." John began. Sherlock raised his hand, his scarf grabbed firmly in between his fingers.

"I know. It's all over the police scanner." He stated as he tied the scarf around his neck.

John squinted his eyes in disapproval, "I told you to stop listening in on that!" He retorted, annoyed.

"Well you know that I enjoy listening for new murders!" he responded. "Besides, I hear this one is really quite interesting." He turned around and headed towards the stairs that lead to the front door. "You best make haste John, there is a cab waiting outside for us already, and it won't wait idle forever." He closed the door behind him and left John. He rushed back into his room and threw on a pair of trousers and a jumper, closed his door behind him, and rushed after Sherlock.

The cabbie pulled up to a flat, where police had already set up caution tape in attempts to prevent anyone from entering. John paid the cabbie and the two exited the vehicle. The skies were clouded grey and there was a small wind blowing through the city. John scratched the back of his head; _I wonder what Lestrade meant about 'different' _he thought to himself. Detective Lestrade flagged down the two, and made his way to them.

"Glad to see you two could make it." He began.

Sherlock looked up; he seemed a tad bit shocked. "I believe that's the first time I have heard anyone besides John say that to me." He looked behind Lestrade, "Now then, if we can please get a look at the victim?"

Lestrade let out a breath, "There's no pleasing you with small talk is there?" He turned around and motioned for the two to follow. An olive skinned woman stood next to a gangly pale man. She had dark brown, almost black wild curls whilst the man had short brown hair, with his bangs pushed up and to the side. Sherlock gave the man a look of disgust.

"What is _he _doing here?" He spat. Lestrade did not even look over to see whom Sherlock was commenting about.

"Don't worry Sherlock; Anderson won't be bothering you today. I specifically told Donovan to keep him as far away from you as possible."

John let out a small uncontrollable giggle. "Same old Sherlock…" He said under his breath as they entered the flat.

The three climbed up a flight of stairs and entered into the second story flat. They stepped into the spacious living quarters, the wood flooring creaked underneath them; giving the flat an eerie feel.

"So where is the victim?" Sherlock inquired hastily.

Lestrade pointed a weary finger towards the direction of the hallway. "Second door on your right. She's in her room still." John swallowed hard, his heart increased as the two made their way down towards where the woman was. The two paused in front of the door; Sherlock slipped on a pair of plastic gloves and handed another pair to John.

"We don't want to go contaminating anything now, do we?" A sly smile wormed it way onto John's face. His stomach churned with fear as he slipped the gloves on and cautiously followed Sherlock as he opened the door. John let out a gasp of horror as he saw what was before him. Inside the room, a woman was strung from the ceiling over her bed. The twine was wrapped so tightly around her wrists that it seemed to be imbedded within her flesh. A pool of blood had collected under her body, on top of the sheets. She was stark naked and her rib cage was ripped open; as though there had been an attempt to make them wings. White feathers were scattered across the floor and were woven in between her innards. Behind the woman, written in what was possibly her own blood, where seven words. _The Angel of Death_ and below that written in black marker, _Let her fly_. Sherlock approached the woman; she was pale as a ghost, her eyes, sullen and dark, the only color beside the blood on the bed.

"Dexter." He broke the silence with his intuitive knowledge. "The copycat re-enacted a murder similar to one from a popular American TV show this time, not an actual murder. It seems he or she is not subject to stay within the means of actual cases." He turned to face the wall, "The killer added something though," He approached the writing. "The phrase _Let her Fly_ has nothing to do with it. This was of his or her own doing. He or she may be a copycat, but this person still have some sort of originality to them." Sherlock turned around and exited the room. He paused at the door for a moment, "And I don't watch crap telly John. In fact, it helped me identify this murder." He out and into the hallway and made his way towards the front entrance; John quickly followed behind him.

Three days after that, another murder was discovered in West London. Sherlock and John tagged along with Lestrade to the scene. The three stood before an abandoned brick barber shop. John and Sherlock looked at each other. Sherlock's eyes gleamed with excitement; it had been a long time since they had a sting of murders like this one. The two entered the building, hand in hand. Inside were the remains of what seemed to be a man with his throat slit open. White foam covered what was left of his face, possibly shaving cream. His stomach was flayed, his insides a strewn. A makeshift oven was in the corner, it had possibly been dragged in though the back of the building; the door to its interior was open, with a horrid stench protruding from it. Next to the corpse was a stale meat pie; there was a slice already cut from the pie placed on a plate and a barber's blade stained with blood next to it. Maggots squirmed inside the carrion pastry. Sherlock stepped forward and tilted the head of the cadaver. A large letter C containing a smaller within it was branded behind the left ear. John couldn't take the stench any longer. He stepped outside, held in his vomit, and tried to collect himself.

Sherlock followed John outside the facility, "Sweeny Todd, and his lover Mrs. Lovett, a classic example of British murder with a pinch of cannibalism." He scanned over the area, and looked to Lestrade. "Our killer is becoming much more diverse in his or her methods of murder. He or she has imitated two American murders, one Roman, and one British; all of them ranging between time periods as well. Not only that, but this was rather bold of the killer, to perform such an act this close to the public. Have you checked the cameras?" He inquired of Lestrade.

He nodded, "Of course, it was the first thing we did when we got here. I called up your brother. It seems that after midnight there is nothing but static until three A.M." Sherlock lifted his hand and cupped his chin with his thumb and index finger, pensively.

"My assumptions are that the tape was either tampered with, which I highly doubt; or that the killer has some sort of device that interferes with electronics. I'm going with the latter." John looked up at Sherlock, utterly mortified.

"How the hell were you able to withstand that wretched smell?!" He interrupted the two. Sherlock looked back at John, his eyes gleamed.

"Years of experiments and you get used to scents like that." Her returned to his conversation with Lestrade, and left John to register that thought. "So Lestrade, that means not only are we dealing with a murderer, but we're dealing with a fairly intelligent one who knows how to handle electronics. This has made the case that much more interesting. I'll let you know if I come up with anything, and you call me if any other situations arise where I am needed." Sherlock trudged against the heavy wind as it barreled against him. The skies had been overcast all week with no signs of letting up anytime soon. John briskly pursued Sherlock as he flagged another cabbie further down the street.

Two more days went by before another call came to Sherlock. Sherlock's mobile vibrated on the counter top as John sat at his desk with his laptop open. He noted as Sherlock rushed from this study and answered it.

"Yes?" He demanded. Amusement flickered in his eyes. "We'll be right there." He hung up the phone, "John." Sherlock's voice enticed him. He looked over at his mate.

"What now?" he asked, a tad worried.

"We got another one. CC is back."

The two pulled up slowly, and paid the cabbie driver once more before departing from the auto. A large lorry was stationed in front of the building; a man was talking to police. Sherlock gave him a quick glance before continuing on behind it. John followed, consumed by curiosity. They were greeted by Lestrade, who was reclined against the lorry. They made their way towards him as John took note of Sherlock; he scanned his surroundings. He looked to the street sign, and read it aloud, "Durward Street." Something flickered in the back of John's mind.

"Wasn't this Buck's Row at one point?"

Sherlock nodded his response, "Yes. The street that was believed to be where Jack the Ripper committed his first crime. Am I not right, Lestrade? Is that what the killer imitated this time?" Lestrade nodded grimly.

Sherlock pushed Lestrade aside and headed towards the scene himself. The woman was within two buildings, inside a dark alley. She was slumped against the wall of one of the buildings. The lorry had been preventing anyone from actually seeing her body; unless you actually came down the alley. Sherlock handed a pair of surgical gloves to John, as he slid on pair for himself. Her throat was severed by two gashes, and her tight black corset had been ripped open with some sort of sharp weapon. Her insides poured out of a gaping hole in her stomach. Her shorts were stained with her own blood and her pantyhose were torn. Inside her hand, she clutched an organ. John stepped back.

"Is that?" he began.

Sherlock answered his question, "Yes, it's her uterus. John, come here for a moment." John cautiously approached the corpse and knelt beside Sherlock. He lingered back a tad. Sherlock looked over to John, "She dead John, she's not going to bite. And anyways, I thought you'd killed people, you said so yourself."

A flash of anger flared though John. "That was different Sherlock. For starters, that was war, and second, I was not used to seeing people maimed in _this_ sort of manner." He motioned with his head towards the dead prostitute. Sherlock looked back the cold lump of flesh.

"Look, John." Sherlock pointed a gloved-finger towards the woman's hand. He steadily turned the palm over, in an attempt to see the back of the hand. _Move Me _was written in electric blue nail polish.

"That's strange…" John began.

"Yes, it is." Sherlock retorted smugly, "Especially considering the fact that this woman's nails are not the same color as the nail polish. Her nails on her hand are yellow, and on her toes as well." John looked down at the woman's feet for the first time. They were a pale blue, which only made the bright yellow paint stand out even more.

"That's quite queer, where are her shoes?" John piped.

"My guess," Sherlock began, "is that the copycat took them." He pushed the body over, doing as the message on the hand told. Behind it on the wall, were four words written in the same blue nail polish. _Am I Pretty Yet?_ "I believe," Sherlock continued, "that we are dealing with a female copycat killer."

John yawned, and fervently rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He reached out steadily and picked up the piping hot mug of coffee. He raised the cup to his mouth; the hot fumes wafted from the beverage and found its way into his nasal cavity. He took a cautious sip, and pulled it away from his mouth, cup still in hand, "Bitter." He grumbled to himself. He glanced at Sherlock, and bit his lower lip, yearningly. "Sherlock, coffee is not my cup of tea; but you know, tea is." John emphasized his statement in hopes Sherlock would adhere to his pleas of help. Sherlock's eyes continued to probe the corkboard; little lines of sting crisscrossed it as it connected photo to photo.

"I need you at maximum capacity John. There is a higher concentration of caffeine in coffee than there is in tea and I need you wide awake for this case." John let out an effortless breath and glanced at the clock. Two-Forty-Five A.M. A week had passed since the dynamic detective duo had taken up the copycat case, which was now building up an infamous reputation. All of Lestrade's attempts to prevent these murders from hitting the news stations were for naught. He looked back at Sherlock, his hand on his chin in a pensive pose. John set the piping hot coffee back onto the table with a clank. He rose from this chair and strode over to Sherlock. The entire room was cluttered with papers and novels. Newspapers were tossed about the perimeter of the room, in a disorderly fashion. The two had spent hours endlessly trying to find out who the killer was and where she would strike next, with absolutely no luck. Not even Sherlock's homeless network was pulling the information they needed. John pulled his arms up to Sherlock's shoulders, and leaned into him; his chest against Sherlock's back.

"Sherlock," John began, "You really should get some rest. We've been at this for hours nonstop." No matter what, it always seemed as though John had to lecture Sherlock like a child in the end.

He scoffed, "And you think that sleep will help me ascertain the information I'm looking for?"

John slipped his arms around Sherlock's neck, "I do." He rested his lips on the nape his neck, and kissed it lightly. John could feel Sherlock's body temperature as it began to rise.

"We've been hyped up on caffeine, how do you supposed we'll get that out of our system." He retorted, in a last ditch effort to continue searching.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. You're so headstrong sometimes, it can't be helped." John simpered. "As for how to get it out of our systems… I think I can think of a way." John pulled his hand back from across Sherlock's chest. He slowly slid it down to the arch of his partner's back, and rested it above his tailbone. He reached up and nibbled his ear. John let go and pulled his head back, "You know Sherlock. We've been together for this long, but we still haven't gone all the way." John whispered huskily into his mate's ear. Sherlock's breathes had begun to increase in speed. He spun around, grabbed John by the wrist and pulled him to his room.

Sherlock slammed the door behind him, he caressed John's face with his hands and pulled him in close, "John, are you sure we're ready for this?" John let out an unsteady breath and nodded. The two slowly made their way towards the bed, tripping over each other's feet until they stood beside it. John pushed Sherlock onto the bed; he lied down, and rested on his back. John climbed on top of his partner, his pulse, accelerated in his veins. He pressed his lips onto Sherlock's, and pulled his hands up to his shirt. His fingers fumbled clumsily with the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. John pulled his face away from Sherlock's, "It seems you're having a difficult time removing my clothing." Sherlock eyed his partner. John could feel his hot moist breathes on his face. He looked down at the shirt; a white formal button up.

"Forgive me Sherlock, but I don't think you'll mind since it's not the violet one." John inserted his fingers within the gaps between the buttons of the shirt and tore them apart. The buttons scattered and bounced on the floor, the shirt, torn open. Sherlock looked back at John, shocked.

"That was a gift from Mycroft." He replied coolly.

"And? Don't you hate your brother?" John countered, a smirk on his face. "Well I wouldn't go so far as to say hate…" a grin burst forth, his eyes twinkled. John beamed back, as he swiftly pulled off his jumper. He tossed it aside, licked his lips, and buried his face into Sherlock's neck.

"Oh, John…" Sherlock let out as he made his was up his neck. Sherlock's hands scrabbled around for the button on his trousers.

John felt Sherlock's erection press against his; their breathes slowly reached unison. He undid the clasp to his trousers as Sherlock did the same. They kicked off the cumbersome articles of clothing, left only in their pants; one on top of the other. John gazed into Sherlock's eyes; they flickered with anticipation and hunger. They were ravenous and lustful. Everything John wanted them to be. John pushed himself off of Sherlock's lap, and looked upon his white pants with a small bee on the groin. He looked at his own, a vibrant shade of red. "Our pants define us; we're two peas in a pod, Sherlock." John giggled. Sherlock smiled, and nodded his response. He reached over to the drawer on the night stand and pulled it open. He shoved his hand in, fumbled about, and pulled out a bottle of lubricant.

"I've been saving this… for today John." Sherlock explored John's eyes; they shone with tenderness. He pulled off John's pants and began applying the liquid to John's penis.

"Wait."

Sherlock's erection throbbed, "What is it?" He inquired hastily.

John averted his gaze from Sherlock's eyes, "Well," he began, in a rapid, tremulous voice. "I was thinking… since you're still a virgin, that you could, I don't know…" John trailed off, unable to finish his sentence. His face was ablaze, he gusted out a sigh. Sherlock's eyes grew wide, his heart pounded, more violently than ever before. It felt as though it were about to burst. He threw his hands around John's neck and pulled him in. He kissed him forcefully, to the point where when he released John, he was left gasping for air. The two looked at each other as Sherlock slicked the lubricant onto himself and handed the bottle over to John, as he prepared himself for Sherlock. John rested his back onto the bed, as Sherlock climbed over him.

"Are you ready John?" Sherlock said, in the most reassuring voice he could scrounge up. John nodded anxiously. Sherlock slowly pulled his hand down to his partner's entrance, and as gently as he could, slid in a finger. John let out a shocked gasp, his hands clutched and scratched Sherlock's back. "John, just relax. It'll go in a lot smoother if you just let your body relax, I read so." John's expression transformed within a nanosecond.

"Are you shitting me?" He let out breathily. "You're really talking about how you researched sex, while we're having sex!?" John snapped.

Sherlock frowned, "Remember John, who's in charge. I don't like to be yelled at while attempting to perform intercourse with my partner." Sherlock slipped another finger in, which was curtly followed by another gasp of ecstasy. Sherlock smirked, he looked at his partner; his eyes were wide, pupils fully dilated. He pulled John's hips towards his groin, and pulled his fingers out. "Are you ready?" Sherlock asked John. John shook his head nervously. "Well it's a tad bit too late to back out now, isn't it?" Sherlock pulled himself in towards John, his erection, teasing his entrance. "John, if it's too much, just bite my shoulder. I don't want you to be the only one in pain." Sherlock slowly pushed into John, John's nails dug into Sherlock's back, his screams were muffled as his bit into Sherlock's shoulder. "Relax- John, just- Relax." Sherlock managed. He could feel John loosen, and he slid in completely. John released his grip on Sherlock's shoulder, but kept his arms around his back. Sherlock pulled a hand down towards John's own erection and began to stroke it. He pulled his own out a little and thrusted back. John threw his head back and groaned. His erogenous zone pulsed with blood.

"Again…" John quivered. Sherlock repeated the motion, and received a similar response from John.

"It seems- I've found- your prostate." He let out through his thrusts. He timed his strokes of John's penis with his motion. His for finger and thumb, delicately handling his partner's shaft as though it were the one of an antique violin bow. Their breathes began to come out in quick spurts, John's hands were now groping at Sherlock's chest. John reached down and gripped his own erection and began to tug it forcefully.

"I like- it rough- and fast." He managed as Sherlock drove into him. Sherlock pulled his hand away from John's phallus, to let John please himself; he gripped both of his hips. Sherlock struggled for breathes now, his chest heaved as sweat poured down him and his partner. The sheets were soaked in it as Sherlock shoved himself into John while simultaneously pulling him in towards his own thighs. John's moans were ear-splitting, "I'm –so close- Sherlock." He managed.

"Me too, John." Sherlock replied weakly. John pulled his arms back over Sherlock's head and intertwined his fingers in his hair. He closed his eyes, and spread his toes apart as his body shook; he threw his head back, gripped Sherlock's hair and let out a quivery breathe. Sherlock plowed once more and released an erotic groan of climax. Sherlock pulled himself out and let his body slump onto John's. John's sticky residue smeared in between their stomachs. The two laid there, their hearts pounded and their lungs raced for air.

"You tired yet?" John let out weakly as he laced his fingers into Sherlock's.

He looked into John's clear blue eyes, "Exhausted."

John awoke the next morning, with Sherlock still lying on his chest. The rising and falling of their chests were in rhythm with one another, like a melody that could only be heard between the two of them. Their fingers were still locked together as they had been when they fell asleep the night before. He let out an exhausted yawn and raised his free hand up to his face to wipe the sleep from his eyes. His placed his hand back on the nape of Sherlock's neck and began to drum it lightly. Sherlock grumbled sleepily and turned his head over. John beamed, and let out an overjoyed sigh. His stomach was fluttering with butterflies; they always did when he was around Sherlock. It made him feel like a little school girl with some uncanny crush. _Sherlock if you knew, I never hear the end of it. _John turned his head, as carefully as he possibly could, as to not disturb his partner's rest. He knew just how much Sherlock needed this sleep, whether or not Sherlock himself did, and would do anything to let him rest for as long as possible. The clock's red digital letters read 9:27 A.M. He dangled his arm back over Sherlock and closed his eyes once more.

John awoke again; the weight of Sherlock had disappeared from his own body. He looked around the room, a tad disoriented and checked the clock. 12:22 P.M. He reached over and pulled a pair of pants from Sherlock's dresser. "Bees…" He said, his eyes still half closed, shoulders slumped. "Of course." He smiled and shook the notion away. He ambled into the living room, the scent of eggs, bacon, and sausage drifted into John's nose. He stumbled into the kitchen, still a little aloof. Sherlock stood over the oven once again, as he cooked his heart away in his Bee apron whilst sporting John's red pants again.

John reclined against the wall closest towards the doorway, "Hehe breakfast." John murmured happily. Sherlock swung his head over to his right, and smiled at his partner.

"Of course, last night _was _special, after all." A knock came from the door; John turned his head in response.

"I'll see to it Sherlock, you keep cooking." John strolled to the door, and grabbed his robes off of the hat stand. He opened the door, "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, how are you?"

Mrs. Hudson stood at the door with envelopes in her hand, "Oh hello boys, I just brought you the mail. You two got a package today. You order anything recently?" She handed the package over to John.

"I don't recall ordering anything, but maybe Sherlock did." John put the package under his arm. "Well thanks again Mrs. Hudson." Mrs. Hudson turned around and headed back down the flight of stairs. John shut the door and returned to Sherlock with the package in hand. He set it upon the table; Sherlock turned around and stared at in inquisitively.

"What's that?" Sherlock inquired. John looked back, dumbfounded.

"I thought you knew?" Sherlock shook his head. The two stood on either side of the table, box in between them. Sherlock reached for the silverware on the table, the knife, and slowly cut the tape. He undid the flaps on the box, and opened it; it was stuffed with dryer sheets. Together, they pulled out the sheets and inside where fourteen Pence, each with a large letter drawn on one face of it. They were accompanied by a note, which was created by pieces of other magazines, like a ransom letter. It read,

"Here is a treat for my dear Sherlock and John,

Because I think it's time we met and had more fun,

Solve my riddle with these sheets and Pence,

Then the real fun can finally commence. – CC"

The two gazed blankly at the box, awestruck. Sherlock grabbed the bottom of the box and flipped it over. The coins spilled out onto the table top. Each one had a different letter; Sherlock went ahead and rearranged them into alphabetical order. A, E, G, I, L, M, M, N, O, R, R, S, T, Y. "The only repeating letters are M and R…" Sherlock thought to himself. "John," he spoke without looking up.

He knew, "Mind palace, got it." John closed his eyes and stepped out of the room.

Sherlock stood before the puzzle that lied before him. The sheets, the pence, the letters. There had to be something else… something that was missing. He grabbed the box, and searched the outside. _To my dearest Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson _was written in the penmanship that could only belong to a woman. He searched the insides, and found nothing as well. He tossed the box aside in an angry fit of rage. It slammed into the wall and slid down to the floor. A mark caught his eye. He paced back to the box and looked at the inside again. A corner of the inside was lifted, as though it had been placed there. He grabbed knife that rested on the table and peeled the corner. It lifted, and Sherlock gently pulled it off. Under the sticker, there were two dates followed by two words each. The first _The Murder: 14/04/1949 _and the one below it _The Recreation: 17/05/2014_. Sherlock closed his eyes; information flew through his mind; pence, dryer sheets, the letters, the dates. It clicked. He rushed towards the table top and began rearranging the letters into a new fashion. "John," Sherlock shouted, "Come in, I got it!" John rushed into the room, "What was it?" John stood at the table, mouth agape as Sherlock compiled the scattered array of letters into a name.

_Emily Armstrong._

Sherlock stood back and proudly admired his deductive skills, "Emily Armstrong, also known as 'Dead Emily'. Murdered the 14 of April, 1949 in Eastman's Dry Cleaners. Bludgeoned to death, murderer never found. What's the date today John?" Sherlock's head snapped up.

John thought a moment, "Uh I believe it's the 17th of May."

Sherlock's eyes widened, "She's going to strike again, today. She misjudged us and gave us too much information." He paced out of the kitchen, and towards his room. "Get dressed John. We have a Copycat to catch." John rushed over to the stove, and turned off the fire. The stench of burnt bacon floated into the atmosphere of the kitchen. John turned and rushed back into his room. He threw on his trousers, slipped on his jumper, his shoes and rushed after Sherlock.

John pulled out his mobile, and dialed for Lestrade, "Lestrade, we got a hit. Meet us at the Eastman's Dry Cleaners on…" John placed his phone over chest. "Sherlock, where's the mat located?"

Sherlock rushed out of his room, "St. John's Wood High Street." Sherlock's coat drifted behind him as he bolted out of the door and down the flight of stairs.

John raised his mobile back to his ear, "St. John's Wood High Street. Got it Lestrade? We'll see you there." John hung up his phone and raced after Sherlock.

The cabbie pulled up to the outside of the Laundromat. It was dark and seemed to be empty and abandoned. The two exited the vehicle and Sherlock looked at the reflection that was cast in the glass windows. Just across the street was yet another abandoned building.

"Well that's great." Sherlock grumbled. Both abandoned buildings had their signs torn down. It was impossible to identify which one was the correct building. "We'll have to split up." Sherlock began.

"No." John set his foot down defiantly. "There is absolutely no bloody way in hell I'm letting you off on your own Sherlock. We're a team and that means we stick together through thick and thin." Sherlock turned his head to one side, brought up his hand and rested it on John's face.

"John, I know the last thing you would want to happen is for one of us to get hurt, but are you not the one always insisting that we save as many people as we can? The copycat has someone and if we don't split up, they're probably going to die." Sherlock looked deep into John's eyes. They looked pained, but he could sense that John understood.

He let out a defeated breathe and nodded, "Fine, but take this." John reached into the back of his trousers and pulled out a gun. "I've been trained in hand to hand Sherlock. I'd feel better if you had this with you." He motioned the pistol towards Sherlock, and he began to snicker. "What's so funny Sherlock?" John pouted, "I'm serious about this." Sherlock opened his coat to reveal a pistol of his own. "Where the hell did you get that?!" John gasped.

Sherlock hid the pistol again, "I told you, I pick pocket Lestrade when he gets annoying." John could not fathom this; even for Sherlock it was insane.

"Blimey Sherlock, you really are a dick." John shook his head in amazement, a smile crept on his face. "When this is all over and done with you're giving that back." He laughed out. "You see Sherlock, this was supposed to be a serious situation but now look what you've gone and done." John held in a final giggle and squeezed Sherlock's arm tightly. "Be safe." He leaned in and pressed his lips to Sherlock's cheek, and ran across the street to the other desolate location.

Sherlock crept through the back alley and made his way into the building like a burglar. As quite as night, Sherlock opened the back door to the building. It was barren inside, as though it had been abandoned for years. Yet as far as he knew, it had still been in use until quite recently. Sherlock made his way through the labyrinth of machines, looking for any sign that there may be life in this seemingly lifeless void of a room besides him. A rustling sounded behind one of the abandoned dryers, "Ello?" Sherlock called out softly. A muffled yell followed by loud fits of banging responded to Sherlock. He rushed over to the other side of the machine. A woman in her mid-twenties was tied up, a strip of tape over her mouth. Tears flowed from her eyes, which caused the mascara to run down her face in parallel streams of black, like two river styx. Her blonde her was a tattered mess as she continued to thrash about. Sherlock reached over and pulled the tape from her mouth.

"Ahhh!" She yelped in pain, he looked into her eyes, an icy blue. He recognized them.

"Karen…?" The girl looked taken aback, if that was at all possible given her current condition.

"How… how do you know me?" She responded, confused and terrified. He body shook as she struggled to untie herself. Sherlock reached over and undid the knots of rope.

"You served me and my partner three months prior at the Fox and Anchor." She looked up at Sherlock, awestruck; while he worked on the binds.

"How could you have possibly remembered me?" she shuddered.

"You had bruises running up along your arms and neck. I was going to do some investigating… You seemed like a decent girl so I thought I would do you a favour. You'd been physically abused by your partner, but you left. I managed that much before John found out and put an end to it. He told me that I should mind myself. I never thought I'd run into you again though." Sherlock tugged at the bounds once more, they undid and slipped to the floor. "Now go." Karen pulled herself upright and sauntered towards the door.

She gave one final look at Sherlock, "Be careful, she's still in here somewhere." Karen warned, before she exited the building. The door closed behind her and Sherlock rose to his feet.

A slow clap vibrated off the walls behind him. He slowly turned, and was faced by a woman. She was about John's height, with long straight black hair that flowed down and stopped somewhere towards the middle of her back. The tips seemed to be dyed a vibrant pink. She sported navy blue skin-tight trousers, an elaborate black tweet coat, and black combat boots. She was fair skinned and had emerald green eyes. Her nose was fairly small, but it hooked over her thin lips which were doused with a striking shade of red lipstick. "Hello Sherlock." she greeted in a rough German accent. She held out a hand, electric blue nail polish tipped her fingers. "How nice it is to finally meet you. A pity I was not able to greet John as well. Though I suppose you knew from the beginning that this was the right building, and sent John off to the other in order to keep him safe. How… noble." Sherlock made no notion to respond to her polite gesture. She dropped her hand and seated herself on top of one of the machines. It creaked under her weight. She kicked the machine with the heel of her foot, "Shut it, I don't even weight that much!" She screeched at the inanimate object. She snapped back at Sherlock, "Well then, I'm honored that you could at least grace me with your presence. I'd heard a lot about you. The man who beat Moriarty, I'd never thought I'd live to see the day." Her legs dangled off the ground as she swung them to and fro. "Yet you managed, and you even found me." She finished, and looked at Sherlock with uninterested eyes.

"You made it too easy to find you miss CC" Sherlock responded in a monotonic voice.

She hopped off the machine and dusted off herself, "Please, call me Chrissa." The machine behind her snapped back into place, with the weight of Chrissa gone. "I said…" Chrissa began "To shut it!" She pulled a dirk from her coat and repeatedly stabbed the machine in a frenzy. The machine squealed and cracked as the blade tore through rusted metal. Her breathes became raged and wild and she pulled herself from the dryer. "I must apologize. That was not very lady like of me." She sheathed her dirk back into her coat and approached Sherlock. "It was nice to finally meet you and all but you're not allowed to live now that you know who I am and what I look like." Sherlock backed away calmly.

He raised his hand slowly to his coat, "Do you really find me such an imbecile to confront you without being armed?" Chrissa's expression turned hard as stone, she charged towards Sherlock as he pulled out the pistol. He aimed it at Chirssa, she swung her leg up and kicked the firearm aside. It flew across the room and fired as it ricochet off the floor. Sherlock swung his arm and caught her leg, still in mid-air, and twisted. Chrissa, unbalanced, tumbled to the floor. Sherlock took his opportunity and bolted towards the door. Chrissa pursued, disoriented by her fall. Sherlock shoved the door open and made a sharp left turn; Chrissa took her chance, pulled out her dirk, and sprung towards Sherlock. Her dirk snagged into his coat. He spun around, taking off his coat in the process, and tossed it at Chrissa, blinding her momentarily. He reached for her blade, and managed to get a grip on her hand with one of his and used the other to keep her at bay. The two struggled to regain control of the weapon.

She looked into Sherlock's eyes, "You won't win."

He smiled back slyly, "We'll soon see about that."

John stumbled in through the backdoor; the entire vicinity was spacious and empty. Cobwebs hung around the ceiling and rats skittered thought the walls. John made his way towards the center area where the washers and dryers were located. He passed through the maze of machines as quietly as he could. A mouse rushed over his foot, and John swung his gun towards it. He let out a sigh of relief as he realized it was just a rodent. He was now towards the front of the building, nothing seemed to be out of place inside this building. _Maybe Sherlock was wrong… Or maybe…_ The idea flashed through John's head. Had Sherlock purposely sent John over to this building, knowing that it was in fact the fake? Just the thought enraged him, _How could Sherlock do something like this? He knows how worried I get! He's such a pompous, uncaring, arrogant arse! Oh when we're done with- _

A gunshot pierced the silence of the room. John's hear rate jumped, he swung his body around, raced towards the front of the door, and slammed it open. A few civilians were screaming, John could hear police sirens in the distance, most likely Lestrade's. He looked across the street as Sherlock burst out of the building, followed by a woman with a crazed look to her. She pulled out a dagger and lunged herself towards Sherlock. The blade caught itself within his coat, but he twirled it off and tossed it at his assailant. It seemed as though everything around John had slowed down. He blinked, but it felt as though an eternity has passed by. When his eyes opened, he saw that the two were now near the curb of the street, fruitlessly fighting for the blade. He could feel fear begin to take root in the pit of his stomach, like the first night the two had dinner all those months ago. The scene was just too well organized, he knew what was about to unfold. The two had now moved in between two large vans parked on the sides of the street, still battling over the weapon. A car rushed down the street, John raced to cross the road to no avail. _Maybe if I can get there in time… _The auto approached, the driver unbeknownst to what was about to occur. John waved his arms in an attempt to get the driver to halt, but Chrissa saw her opening. She yanked on the dirk, knowing Sherlock would pull in response, at let go when he did. He stumbled back into the street, dirk in hand. He twisted his head towards the car, the driver slammed his brakes, but it was futile. John watched, mortified, as his partner was flung across the pavement by the force of the oncoming vehicle. Sherlock's body slammed into the ground and rolled a few more feet before coming to a halt. Rage and fear boiling inside John's body, he was consumed with bloodlust. He drew his weapon towards the direction where Chrissa was, but she had already vanished. The anger washed away, replaced by nothing but fear.

A crowd had begun to gather around Sherlock's body as John raced towards him. "Move out the way! He's my boyfriend, I'm a doctor!" He violently shoved the people aside, knocking them to the ground. John finally managed to break through to Sherlock, his body lay battered and bloody on the stone road. _Oh god… It's happening all over again… _John fell to his knees, and reached towards Sherlock's wrist. His pulse was there, but it slowed which each passing minute. "Somebody call a bloody ambulance!" John's voice cracked with emotion. His jaw trembled as he held his partner. He forced himself to hold in his tears. He picked up Sherlock's head off the ground and rested it into his lap. He looked into his eyes, they were wide, pupils dilated with fear as adrenaline pumped through his weakening veins. The sirens of Lestrade's division slowly stopped as they reached their destination, too little too late. Blood gushed from a gash on Sherlock's arm, it seeped through the material of his coat. "Sherlock…" he quivered, and stifled a sob. He swallowed the lump in his throat. "Just hold on. An ambulance is on its way." He reassured his partner. "Just stay with me, eh?" His voice cracked again, he looked up at caught Lestrade's eye. He lingered at the edge of the crowd, eyes wide and jaw dropped. He returned his view to Sherlock.

He parted his lips and whispered, "I… misjudged her…"

John clutched Sherlock's coat, "Don't worry mate, we'll get another chance to get her. Just stay with me." John remembered that he was a soldier, he had to stay strong for his companions, and Sherlock was no exception. He fought back bouts of tears. Sherlock lifted a mangled hand and caressed John's face. His eyes were still full but the light in them was slowly beginning to fade. John could just make out the pale reflection of the dull grey clouds in his partner's eyes; they slowly changed into a similar shade. A smile cracked on the edges of his lips. John could now hear the ambulance in the distance as it rushed to the scene of the accident. "Help's almost here Sherlock… Please… Just hold on for a little longer… For me… I never ask you to do anything for me. Only once, when I asked you to not be dead. You've done it before, you can do it again…" He let out. He raised a hand to his own face and cupped Sherlock's hand with his. John's breathes became erratic as he struggled to maintain control over his body. He bent over Sherlock and protected him with his body as a mother bear does to her cubs. The smile slowly faded from Sherlock's face and the ambulance screeched to a halt beside the crowd. The sirens blared as the paramedics burst through the back of the vehicle and maneuvered their way through the bystanders with a gurney. The rain began to fall around them, and lightly splashed Sherlock's face. He let out a shaky breathe, and John watched as his partner closed his eyes.

End of Chapter Three


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